A Big Willow Creek hello to all you loyal CSA’rs!
I know many of you didn’t expect a newsletter this month, what with “the end of times” and all that, but my daddy always told me that a farmer’s work is never done—even if life on the planet is extinguishing at an alarming rate. Did my grandpa Silas quit during the Dust Bowl? Nope. He didn’t. And do I intend to quit during, what some are calling “The Rapture”? No. No I do not.
That being said, you might find your boxes a little skimpy this week. If it’s not a thistle outbreak, or some unseasonably cool weather, it’s this darn plague of radioactive locusts that keep forming the face of the devil over what’s left of the sun. Man those things are pesky! Not only did they eat our wheat crop, they carried away Angus, our Irish Wolfhound. But no one ever said running a farm was easy. I sure haven’t!
My son, Big Doug, tried his doggone best to get the carrots and salad greens seeded the other day, but Mother Nature just wouldn’t cooperate. First it was that series of tornados that seemed to form out of nowhere, tossing our Holsteins into neighboring towns. Then, it was the acid rain that melted the tractor (don’t worry, a good farmer always has two). Finally it just started raining down fire like no other. Well, Big Doug high-tailed it right back inside, just as jittery as a spooked horse. “There’s fire falling from the son-of-a-bitching sky!” he shouted. Then he lost consciousness.
You would have found some peas and barley in your Willow Creek box this week, but just yesterday, I found some feral children shoving them into their mouths raw. I tried like heck to get them to stop, but then one of them looked at me and I saw his eyes were bleeding. It doesn’t take more than one Zombie attack to teach me a lesson, so I let ‘em have the dang peas. Incidentally, I put some Dr. Capstone’s ointment on my bite, but it still itches like the dickens.
I suppose some of you were expecting endive and fennel since I mentioned it in the last newsletter. Funny enough, that stuff’s still growing fine. It’s just that since I got bit by that little undead child, my arm’s been swelling up faster than a force-fed chicken. Also, Big Doug said I tried to bite his skull yesterday, so he tied me to the bed. All I have is this newsletter to work on. Which you will see, is written in my own blood.
And I suppose you’ve noticed by now that there’s no box of fresh veggies to accompany my letter this week. For this, I can only apologize. But we here at Willow Creek have faced tough times before, and we intend to persevere. As soon as I get rid of this constant urge to consume human brains (and bite through these restraints), I’ll be right back out there with the locust-blocked sun on my back, transplanting onions and celeriac like I do when the world isn’t rapidly drawing to a horrific end.
Until then, happy (flesh-) eating from Willow Creek Farms!
Sincerely,
Bob Blanchford